


Of Inks and Parchment

by Orchyd Constyne (slarmstrong)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slarmstrong/pseuds/Orchyd%20Constyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor and Lindir share the library late in the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Inks and Parchment

Imladris was in shadow.

Night had long since fallen, plunging the Elven haven into darkness. Most of its residents had retired to their rooms amidst yawns, pleasant laughter, and quiet murmurs. Even the Lord and Lady had left the common areas; they held hands as they walked through dimly lit halls towards their quarters, the Lady giggling over a flattering compliment her Lord gave her.

It was a peaceful shadow that engulfed this house.

Still, some did not slip into their beds and into dreams as readily as others.

In Imladris' grand library, among the great bookshelves and expansive reading tables, a lamp burned brightly on a desk. Creamy parchment was strewn over deep mahogany wood, and a snowy arm encased in a gloomy sleeve moved over the various missives. A hand with long fingers calloused from years of service in this room picked up a quill, the writing instrument fitting perfectly in his grip, and dipped the nib into a pot of ink

The occupant behind the desk inhaled as he drew a new sheet of parchment.

There was a distinct odour to parchment, he thought. It smelled of fresh wood and water, with a hint deep inside of the glue used to bind it all together. And the ink! He thought ink was the most wonderful scent; it was a smell he could even taste, a tang on the sides of his tongue that was bitter and acrid. The library was permeated by these scents, and mingling with those two distinct scents was the mustiness of the books surrounding him. In the air hung the slippery smell of the oil used to keep the leather covers of the books supple. As he put quill to parchment, he smiled.

The sound of the ink being applied to paper was like the whispering of wind through leaves. It was a soothing sound to the Elf. It was complimented by the popping of the fires in the two hearths that warmed the large room. His smile of contentment remained as he watched his own script fill the blank paper, the Tengwar beautifully and perfectly illustrated, the scratching of the nib a consistent sound.

Yet his carefully crafted symphony of ink-slicked quill, fine parchment, and gentle popping was interrupted by the plucking of strings.

Quill paused mid-stroke.

Erestor frowned.

Who was disrupting his night time peace?

He tried to ignore it, but now the scratching of the nib was disharmonious to his ears. The magic of his work was lost with the intrusion of a stranger. Erestor cleaned his quill and set it aside before standing, straightening robes that were already obsessively crisp, and then set out through the stacks of books to find the trespasser.

Erestor followed the sounds of what he could only assume were the tuning of an instrument, his frown deepening with each note that sang clearly in the silence surrounding them. He found the other Elf near one of the hearths, the one farthest from his side of the library, and Erestor paused between the bookshelves to stare at him.

Usually, Erestor found little interest in those around him. If they were not performing a task he had assigned, then they were of no consequence. What were important were the smooth workings of Imladris' archives and Council; there was no room for anything else in his life. Yes, he had seen Lindir at the Hall of Fire, had even heard him play during festivals, but even during meals and celebrations, Erestor's focus was on Imladris. Yanked from his carefully forged place in the night, he was also forced out of his self-imposed social isolation.

He watched as Lindir tuned his small lap harp, the younger Elf's fine fingers expertly teasing the harp into perfect tune. The firelight lit up Lindir's dark hair, making it a blaze of sable and rust. His features were cast into shadows, only the glittering of his grey eyes visible. Erestor took in Lindir's informal clothing... was he actually wearing his sleeping trousers and tunic? And bare feet! Erestor shook his head as he crossed his arms, then cleared his throat to announce his presence. Lindir looked up sharply from the paper on the small table in front of him, his eyes finding Erestor easily in the dim light.

"My lord," he greeted, bowing his head in respect. "I did not know anyone else was in the library so late."

Erestor came into the small circle of warm light, choosing a chair across from Lindir. "I make it a habit to remain behind until Ithil reaches its zenith. It is when I am able to do the most work, uninterrupted by the chaos of the day."

Lindir's features coloured gently as he cast his eyes downward. "Again, I apologise for intruding. I will return to my room now." He began to gather his quill and papers, attempting to juggle a dozen different items along with his harp, and Erestor felt a pang of pity for him.

"No. Remain. Ithil is high already, and I was preparing to retire," he said, the lie smooth and even from his lips. One didn't become one of Elrond's best advisors by not being able to lie as if speaking a truth. "If you wish to give restitution for disturbing my nightly tidying, then perhaps you will play something for me?"

"If that is my lord's wish," Lindir replied with a shy smile. After a moment's pause, he began to play a light, slow tune, something that might be sung for a courting pair. When Lindir's voice joined with the harp's distinctive melody, Erestor was swept up on a wave of artistic delight. It wasn't just the music that captured him, it was also Lindir himself. The muscles of his hands and arms, defined and well-toned from years of playing; the arch of his neck, held just so in order to produce the higher tone of voice needed for this song; and the gentle fall of his hair, dark and light at the same time, cupping the curve of his jaw.

Erestor was entranced.

As he listened and watched, Erestor began to see Lindir as the personification of his inks and parchments. Skin like fresh cream, with that golden hue Erestor found lovely, and hair like a sweep of charcoal. Never before had he admired another, not like this. He saw how Lindir's lashes, thick and dark like soot, seemed to smudge the snowy perfection of the bard's cheeks, and he suddenly wanted to kiss the closed lids. He felt his cheeks flush and hoped that, should Lindir see it, he would attribute it to the warmth of the fire.

It was while he was unabashedly staring at Lindir that the minstrel's song slowly came to its end. When the music ceased, Erestor found himself gazing directly into Lindir's storm coloured eyes. There was expectation written in the depths there, and Erestor fumbled for a response of some kind.

"That was lovely," he managed lamely, surprised at the roughness of his own voice. "Is it something you wrote?"

Lindir smiled bashfully as he nodded. "Yes." His eyes flickered to the harp, as if he could no longer hold Erestor's eyes as he continued. "It was written for someone."

"Someone special," Erestor guessed. He chuckled, absently brushing his hair from his shoulders. "Did you ever play it for them?"

"Only once," Lindir admitted. "He seemed to enjoy it, but he was not aware I had written it for him. It was unrequited love on my part that drove me to compose the piece."

Erestor arched a brow. "He?" That was interesting. Too few of the Elves chose same sexed partners. "I do know how unrequited love can feel," he said softly as he looked into the fire.

Lindir's face fell. "Oh?" he asked, both dread and hope in that one sound.

"Yes. A lifetime ago." Erestor turned his gaze from the fire and smiled warmly. "Now that love has softened into friendship, and I would not trade that for anything. Are you friends with your love?"

"No." Lindir began to gather his things. "I have always been afraid to speak to him."

Confusion crossed Erestor's face. "But you played your song for him, did you not?"

"I did." Lindir stood up, harp clutched to his chest. "It was not intentional. He stumbled upon me late one night and asked I play something for him." Lindir stared at the ground, bowing his head. "It is late, my lord, and I bid you good night."

Erestor watched Lindir scurry from the room, making his way through the rows of shelving toward the door. His brow was furrowed as he tried to make some sense of the younger Elf's behaviour, and when he did, he could have slapped himself for being so dense. He sighed and left his chair, slowly following Lindir from the library to the music hall. Erestor slipped into the room silently and watched Lindir put away his harp and file his papers.

He wondered what his old, unrequited love would tell him to do in this situation. Erestor smirked, shaking his head. He knew what Celebrían would say.

Celebrían would remind Erestor that there was more to life than books and meetings, inks and parchments.

Lindir leaned against a table, his head bent, but Erestor remained just inside the door. He didn't approach the other Noldo, he didn't clear his throat, he didn't do anything but stand there, taking in Lindir's tall, slender form. He was a very patient individual, and his patience was rewarded when Lindir finally sighed and turned away from the table to face Erestor and the door. Lindir's shock made Erestor laugh low in his throat; he crossed his arms and rested his shoulder against the door frame.

"Lindir." The name felt wonderful in his mouth, and Erestor was pleased to see Lindir fidget.

"My lord," he replied.

Erestor pushed away from the frame and slowly crossed the room. Each step was deliberate, made to accentuate his grace. "Would your song be as lovely if it were about requited love?"

Lindir flushed deeply, from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears. "Requited?"

"Requited." Erestor tilted his head some, looking from Lindir's eyes to his lips and back again. "Or, it could be, if you wanted it."

Silence hung between the two Elves as they stared at each other. Erestor was certain Lindir had stopped breathing, but he remained at ease. He intentionally kept his gaze soft, his lips curved into an enigmatic smile, his posture certain and relaxed. Eventually, Lindir blinked, took a deep breath, and nodded.

Erestor nodded as well. "Come back to the library with me?" he asked softly as he took Lindir's hand lightly in his. "I have not locked the doors, and I do happen to have a very nice bottle of wine Elrond pilfered from Lord Celeborn."

Lindir grinned, his young age showing in the expression. "That sounds... lovely."

Erestor led him from the music hall and through the main corridor of Imaldris' lower level that connected all the offices and meeting rooms. The Elves didn't talk until they stood outside the library, when Erestor paused and met Lindir's cloudy eyes.

"I am glad you told me," he confessed, his free hand cupping Lindir's cheek as the bard's hair had done just hours ago.

Lindir leaned into the touch, his eyes closing as he relished the caress. "I am, too."

Erestor took that moment to bend forward and press his lips tenderly to Lindir's. It was brief and almost chaste, but didn't lack affection or promise. Reluctantly, Erestor broke the kiss, the lingering taste of Lindir's lips like honey to him. His smile was mirrored on Lindir's face, and Erestor felt something within his chest blossoming.

He opened the library door and nodded to Lindir, who ducked his head as he shyly hid behind his hair and hurried through. Erestor paused, one hand on the door and a foot hovering over the threshold.

Was he too old to start a courtship? He had spent three Ages alone; could he accept someone in his life like Lindir?

Again, he heard Celebrían's voice in his head.

'You are never too old to fall in love, silly Elf.'

Erestor chuckled to himself and entered the library, the door closing silently behind him.

The End


End file.
